It started with a typo.
A stupid, lazy swipe of my thumb and the most important message of my life flew into the wrong inbox.
“Hey, I just wanted to say... I’m sorry for everything. I still love you. If you feel the same, meet me at Café Juno at 6.”
I stared at the screen, the bubble hanging there like a noose.
And beneath it, the name.
“Sent to: MRS. GEORGE BIOLOGY”
Not Maya.
Not the girl who broke my heart six months ago with a trembling voice and the words, “I think we lost what we had.”
Nope.
Mrs. George. My high school biology teacher. The one with the glass eye and a terrifying habit of calling on you the moment your brain wandered.
Panic.
I tried unsending it. Too late. Two gray ticks.
God.
Maybe she wouldn't check. Maybe she’d think it was a prank. Maybe I could change my name and flee the country.
And then… the ticks turned blue.
A reply came through.
Mrs. George: Café Juno. 6pm. I’ll be there.
What the actual hell?
By 5:45 PM, I was sitting at a corner table at Café Juno, trying to decide if I was losing my mind.
I had no intention of staying.
But curiosity is a dangerous thing. And boredom is worse.
At 5:58, she walked in.
Not Mrs. George.
Not the strict, silver-bunned sixty-something teacher I remembered from twelfth grade.
This was a girl, around my age, maybe twenty-two, in a long green coat and bright red Converse. Her eyes scanned the café. She saw me.
She smiled.
And sat down across from me.
“I figured you'd chicken out.”
“Wait—who are you?”
She blinked. “You texted me. Said you loved me. Told me to come.”
“I didn’t mean to send it to you,” I said. “It was meant for someone else.”
“Ouch.” She leaned back, completely unfazed. “Romantic rejection and mistaken identity. My day just keeps getting better.”
“I’m serious. I thought I was texting someone named Maya. I don’t even know who you are.”
She took a sip of her coffee. I hadn’t even seen her order it. “I’m Lila. I bought this phone secondhand a week ago. I guess your Maya had my number saved under that name.”
“Oh. Right. Damn.”
There was a pause.
“So,” she said, “who's Maya?”
I exhaled, staring into my untouched cup. “We were together for three years. College sweethearts. Lived together. Laughed at the same dumb memes. Then one day she just… said she didn’t feel it anymore.”
“And now?”
“I thought… maybe she was just scared. I’ve been thinking about her for months. That maybe if I sent the right words, something would change.”
“That message was the right words,” she said. “For someone. Just not her.”
I should’ve walked away then.
Thanked her for her time, chalked it up to another ridiculous episode in the chaos of post-breakup life.
But instead, I found myself saying, “What are you doing tomorrow night?”
Lila was a chaotic blend of poetry and fire.
Our second meeting turned into a third, then a fourth. We never called it dating, but we talked for hours. About everything.
She told me she had no family left—her parents died when she was sixteen, her sister moved abroad and never called. She worked at a used bookstore and lived in a loft filled with plants and thrift-store paintings of oceans and moons.
I told her about my failed job interviews. About the hollow ache I felt when I thought of Maya.
She listened.
She never judged.
One night, she showed me a video of her singing an old Bollywood song on a rooftop.
“Did you record this for someone?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Maybe.”
It had been exactly thirty-one days since the accidental message when Maya texted me back.
Maya: I got a new phone. Just saw your message on my old number. I’ve been thinking about you too. Are you still at the café?
A second bubble appeared before I could reply.
Maya: Can we talk?
I didn’t reply.
I didn’t delete it either.
Instead, I called Lila.
“I need to tell you something.”
She met me at the same table at Café Juno.
I told her everything. About Maya. About the message. About how it was Maya I wanted when I first messaged.
And finally, I said, “But I think… I don’t want her anymore.”
Lila stared at me, her expression unreadable.
“I want you,” I said.
She leaned in. “Are you sure?”
I nodded.
She smiled. A soft, bittersweet curve. “Then there’s something I need to show you.”
We walked to her loft.
She rummaged through a drawer and pulled out an old phone.
She unlocked it.
Scrolled.
Showed me something.
A contact.
You — saved under the name Aarav (Café Juno)
Beneath it: Last message sent: “Hey, I just wanted to say... I’m sorry for everything. I still love you...”
I stared at it. “Wait… you—?”
“I wrote that message a month ago,” she said quietly. “To someone who never replied.”
My voice dropped to a whisper. “How did it end up in my inbox?”
She smiled.
“When I got my new phone, I imported my contacts from Gmail. Your number must’ve matched his.”
“You sent the message… before I did?”
She nodded.
“We both sent the same message,” I said, stunned.
“To the wrong person,” she said.
I laughed. It was shaky, like something inside me was breaking open.
“Do you believe in fate?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “I believe in choice.”
She stepped closer.
“I chose to reply. You chose to come. That’s all fate ever is.”
We never spoke of Maya again.
And I never changed Lila’s name in my phone.
It still reads: MRS. GEORGE BIOLOGY
Every time she texts me, it makes me laugh.
Every time I see her name light up my screen, I remember—
Sometimes the wrong message can lead to the right person.
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